


Forgive Me If I Slip Away

by BluSakura



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4103641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluSakura/pseuds/BluSakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ahiru lingered at the entrance to the secret passage behind their wardrobe, lips quivering, shouldering the satchel, holding their child, reaching out to cling to Fakir's arm and beg him to come with them or let her stay. But he knew she wasn't Princess Tutu anymore. She was the the mother of a story-spinner's child, and his only hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_part 1/3_

* * *

Fakir met Ahiru's anguished gaze, his own resolute.

It began a month or so ago. The walls reappeared around the town. Murders of crows perched upon trees and houses. Endings vanished from books. Their neighbors slithered across the road as if they always  _were_ snakes.

Fakir burned the stories he had written over the years. Still, a new story had taken hold–and only Fakir and Ahiru could feel the stifling difference in the air.

They talked about it extensively, and even Autor had advised them over the subject. There was a plan in place, though Ahiru protested tearfully, cradling their child to her breast and gripping Fakir's sleeve. " _It won't be like that!_ " she wailed into his chest, their son stirring and whimpering between them, " _We can figure everything out before that ever happens!_ "

Fakir shook his head, embracing them, the scar upon his hand itching.

When the cloaked figures encroached upon their little home by the lake at the edge of the woods, torches in hand in the darkness and axe glinting in the moonlight, Fakir was prepared. They exchanged glances for a brief moment (she was crying, his eyes were bloodshot) before they acted. She grabbed the satchel he readied for them (and one of Fakir's shirts, ripped with constant use and the scent of ink embedded in the cloth). He went to the baby's bassinet, tenderly wrapping the child in a blanket.

His baby had freckles and dark hair. With soft, round cheeks and long eyelashes, Fakir always did think he was a rather handsome boy–though, that might've been fatherly pride. He smiled through tears as he placed the infant in Ahiru's trembling arms (because he knew she wouldn't take him otherwise–anything to put off leaving).

Ahiru lingered at the entrance to the secret passage behind their wardrobe, lips quivering, shouldering the satchel, holding their child, reaching out to cling to Fakir's arm and beg him to come with them or let her stay.

But he knew she wasn't Princess Tutu anymore. She was the the mother of a story-spinner's child, and his only hope.

Their kiss was fervent and sweet, and his touch to his baby's forehead and cheek was gentle and lingering before he pushed them away, shutting away the hidden passage and locking the wardrobe.

The front door splintered beneath steel, and Fakir dried his eyes before meeting the bookmen at the entrance of his home.


	2. Chapter 2

_part 2/3_

* * *

The boy curled up with his little sister outside Mama's door.

He couldn't understand the change. Their mama was so happy during the day. She adored her ballet students, and doted upon her children. The villagers and their neighbors smiled at her when the family went to the market together, and she always smiled back. Her grin was like sunshine, her blue eyes shimmering with happiness and pride when she would accidentally drop one of the wrapped loaves of bread, only for her 5-year-old son to dutifully pick it up for his clumsy mother while she held his sister's hand.

But when the sun went down, and she would tenderly tuck the both of them into bed, they would sneak down the stairs to watch her.

Mama danced like she often would for her students, but it was different. She arched back like she was leaning into someone's hold, or grip the edge of their kitchen table as if holding someone's hand. And she was always crying; not like the kind of wailing his little sister did when she was having a tantrum, but it was quiet with lots of tears.

They would hide so they wouldn't get caught and be sent back to bed when she decided to go back upstairs to her bedroom and cry some more into the white fabric with ink stains and buttons on it.

She once said it was Papa's shirt. She once said that Papa was a writer who loved them all very much (he remembered her crying when she said he must love his sister, too, and wished that he _knew_ ; the boy didn't quite understand). When he asked Mama if he could write as well, she smiled brightly through tears and said, " _Yes … carefully, though? Make sure you write only when I'm there, holding your hand. And don't say a word to anyone. It'll be our little secret._ "

Mama was always thinking about them. Always so open and understanding. When the boy asked her why he thought it was strange that his best friend was a rhino and everyone else thought it was normal, she clutched her son to her and sobbed, telling him to  _never forget_  that he could see, and reassured him that there was nothing strange about what he thought.

She said that one day, he and his sister would make a difference, and she would be there every step of the way.

That was why they wanted so badly to make her smile, even at night. They pulled the door open together, padded across the room, and slipped onto the bed beside her, burying their heads into her (tight, welcoming,  _desperate_ ) embrace and the white, ink-stained fabric.


	3. Chapter 3

_part 3/3_

 

* * *

Even now, as his sister danced outside with every ounce of hope and determination she could muster, even as his mother suffered within the Raven's belly, even as the entire town was enveloped in darkness and despair and the  _caw-caw_ 's echoed through the air …

… He couldn't write.

The duck-feather quill quivered as his hands shook, fear and dread and doubt flooding him. He had never done this alone. Not without his mother's hand holding his own or his sister's smile to spur him on. His heart reached out to the cries of his family, but his fingertips simply  _would not move_ –!

Tears stung his blue eyes as he gripped his wrist, trying to force the action. He needed to get something down! Anything down! It was up to them! They were supposed to make a difference and save everyone!

And there he was, leaving his sister alone to shoulder the burden.

He released a sob, his shoulders heaving. The sky grew darker. His sister grew tired. His mother's voice in his heart grew quieter.

When he felt creeping surrender slip around his mind, his fingers loosening around the quill, the clock nearby stopped ticking. Gears began to creak, groaning with resistance. Bells chimed, and the sound of drums drew his attention to his left.

There was a little girl with mint-green hair, drumming as she watched the cogs spin backwards. She pointed with one drum stick to a spotlight that hadn't been there before. "Going back again, zura~!"

Under this spotlight was a man.

He had his face–no,not quite, those were his sister's green eyes. And he was wearing an ink-stained shirt and white gloves.

Behind the man, scenes flashed across the stage–of a duck, sitting on the man's lap as he wrote; Mama, young, dancing with him (so like the way she danced alone at night); a wedding, where Uncle Autor played the piano and Aunt Raetsel and Grandpa Karon were crying.

When the scenes began to fade, the spotlight remained. Beneath it, the man was cradling a baby next to a startlingly familiar bassinet, rocking the child to sleep.

" _Once upon a time,_ " the man whispered, his voice deep heavy with emotion and stifled sobs, " _there was a man who loved his son._ "

The young man watched, tears streaming in silent rivulets down his freckled cheeks. When he felt the gentle, supportive press of a gloved hand upon his shoulder, time resumed, and so did he. His quill began to fly across the empty page, fingers pouring out the words and emotions he never knew and never heard–of undying devotion, care, and love; of fierce protectiveness, loyalty and pride.

That day, the town was saved, and the story ended. And Papa's feelings finally reached them.

 

* * *

 

_And I never want to let you down_  
_Forgive me if I slip away_  
 _When all that I've known is lost and found_  
 _I promise you I, I'll come back to you one day_ - "February Song" by Josh Groban


End file.
